Cricket in Clanwilliam
by C Louis Leipoldt
To the Reverend Mr Mance-Bisley it was unbelievable that there should exist in the British Empire a school – with a senior secondary section containing sturdy, well set-up lads preparing for their matriculation – which did not play cricket. He was horrified when he found out that not one boy in the village possessed a cricket bat, and that a set of wickets and a few broken bails were all that could be procured after a careful canvass. He promptly sat down and wrote to a firm in Cape Town, and in due course several sets of cricket implements arrived with the post-cart and were taken to the school. At morning assembly he spoke enthusiastically on the subject. He took ‘cricket’ as his text, and although he was too conscientious a man and too experienced a teacher to refer to the possibility that some future South African battle might be won on the cricket field, he made it clear that he expected every boy to consider it his duty to learn to play cricket.
~
‘Shall we go in, Mr Quakerley?’
‘No need, rector, no need. I merely came to introduce this young shaver to you. He’s my grandson, Charles Crest, though why they didn’t call him Andrew I can’t make out. From Australia, you know. I thought you might like to have him in your class.’
‘Term’s almost at an end,’ the rector said, studying the boy. ‘He’d better enter in January. What standard is he in?’
‘I really don’t know. I suppose the Australian schools have different standards from ours. You might put him through his paces, rector, if you please. Come, Charlie, tell Mr Mance-Bisley what you can do.’
‘Sums and reading and writing,’ said the boy shyly. ‘And map drawing and history, granddad. And we started algebra just before we left.’
‘How old are you?’ asked the rector, noting with satisfaction that the boy had good manners, bore himself with a certain childlike dignity, and spoke without a trace of the ‘colonial’ intonation so annoyingly prevalent among the village youth.
‘Ten, sir,’ came the reply, and the rector was still more satisfied with the answer. Obviously the lad had been well taught. The village schoolboys tacked ‘sir’ onto their replies as an afterthought, and usually omitted it altogether. There was something strangely likeable in the little fellow, something that reminded one of small boys in an English preparatory school, something altogether different from the brown, sturdy boyhood in this semi-tropical part of the world, where the co-existence of two languages played havoc with accent and correct speech. Old Andrew had moved away, his interest caught by something that grew in the garden, but although the boy’s eyes followed his grandfather he made no movement to accompany him, but stood respectfully at attention.
‘We shall have to see what you can do, Crest,’ said the rector. ‘I think you’d better come to me this afternoon and bring your books with you. Have you started Latin yet?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Hmm, you’ll have to make a start with it sometime and you might as well begin now. You should have started long ago. I suppose Mr Quakerley wishes you to matriculate. Well, we’ll see about that. Perhaps you may be fit for standard five, or four at least.’ He turned to the old man, who was interestedly examining a clump of yellow flowers that grew on a sandy patch close by. ‘Perhaps you’ll let him come and see me this afternoon, Mr Quakerley.’
~
Charlie, told to run away and play, had obeyed his grandfather to the extent of wandering towards the water furrow and the little bath-house, shaded by leafy oak trees, and had found, leaning against the bath-house door, a cricket bat with which he was now blocking imaginary balls whizzing past the bath-house steps. Mr Mance-Bisley felt an emotion that surged up in him like a wave. There was grace, action; there was evidence of that instinctive liking whose absence among his boys he had so often deplored. He startled the old man by bounding forward, and crying – for Mr Mance-Bisley was impetuous and excitable – at the top of his voice, ‘Wait, wait! I’ll get the ball and bowl to you.’
He divested himself of his coat, turned up his shirt sleeves, shortened his braces by two holes, and bounded – with an agility one would scarcely have expected from a person so sleek and so chubbily rotund – over the garden path while he bowled. How his spectacles remained on during these vigorous exhibitions of arm- and leg-play was a miracle, but they did; and they evidently served him well for he bowled with skill, maintaining a good length and varying his pace. The little batsman took the bowling with some trepidation at first, but steadied in a manner that both grown-ups liked to see, and snicked and blocked with commendable judgment. Old Andrew admired the easy grace of the boy who, flushed with excitement and eagerness, handled a bat obviously too large for him with a dexterity that showed he had had some practice. The rector noted the faults, the imperfections that revealed bad training, the wasted effort in strokes that should have been made differently, but he also observed the quickness of eye and hand, the alertness of the player and the courage with which the boy faced the bowling. The youngster was untrained but he had style, and there were the makings of a fine cricketer, or at least a fine batsman, in him.
The rector, heated by his exertions, handed the ball to Charlie. ‘Let’s see what you can do with the bowling,’ he remarked. ‘Just a minute, Mr Quakerley, but I really must try him with the ball.’
‘There,’ he said, after he had dealt with the bowling and noted once more that although there were plenty of faults to be corrected in the boy’s action, there were certainly also points which any cricket coach would have appreciated. Mr Mance-Bisley, who adored cricket as he adored few mundane things except his wife, and who had for years been looking out for a promising youth who could be inspired with something of his own enthusiasm for the game, felt that he had at last found what he had been seeking.
Krieket in Clanwilliam
Uit The Valley
deur C. Louis Leipoldt
Vir ds. Mance-Bisley was dit ongelooflik dat daar in die Britse Ryk ’n skool kon bestaan, waar, in die senior sekondêre afdeling ter voorbereiding vir die matrikulasie-eksamen, daar seuns was, stewig van voorkoms en slaggereed, wat nie krieket gespeel het nie. Hy was behoorlik geskok toe hy agtergekom het dat daar nie eens een seun was wat ’n krieketkolf besit het nie. Na ’n sorgvuldige opname was al wat verkry kon word ’n stel paaltjies en ʼn paar gebreekte balkies. Hy het daar en dan aan ’n firma in Kaapstad geskryf, en mettertyd het daar met die poskar ’n hele paar kriekettoerustings vir die skool aangeland. In die oggend se saalbyeenkoms het hy met geesdrif oor dié onderwerp gepraat. Hy het krieket as sy tema gekies, en hoewel hy as persoon en as onderwyser te voorbeeldig en te ervare was om te verwys na die moontlikheid dat daar in die toekoms ’n veldslag in Suid-Afrika op die krieketveld gewen kon word, het hy dit duidelik gemaak dat hy verwag het dat elke seun dit as sy plig moes beskou om krieket te leer speel.
~
“Sal ons ingaan, meneer Quakerley?”
“Onnodig rektor, onnodig. Ek het maar net gekom om hierdie jong knaap aan jou voor te stel. Hy’s my kleinseun, Charles Crest, hoewel ek nie kan verstaan waarom hulle hom nie Andrew genoem het nie. Van Australië af, jy weet. Ek het gedink dat jy dalk daarvan sal hou om hom in jou klas te hê.”
“Die termyn is al amper verby,” het die rektor gesê terwyl hy die seun goed bekyk het. “Dit sal beter wees as hy in Januarie begin. In watter standerd is hy?”
“Ek weet regtig nie. Ek veronderstel die standerds in die Australiese skole verskil van ons s’n. Kan jy asseblief kyk wat hy kan doen, rektor. Kom Charlie, sê vir meneer Mance-Bisley wat jy kan doen.”
“Somme en lees en skryf,” sê die seun ietwat skamerig. “En kaartteken en geskiedenis, Oupa. En ons het net begin met algebra toe ons vertrek het.”
“Hoe oud is jy?” het die rektor gevra. Hy het met bevrediging opgemerk dat die seun goeie maniere gehad het. Hy het ’n soort van kinderlike waardigheid besit, en verder het hy sonder ’n sweempie van die hinderlike “koloniale” stembuiging, wat so algemeen onder die dorp se jeug voorgekom het, gepraat.
“Tien, Meneer,” het die antwoord gekom, en daarmee was die rektor nog meer tevrede. Dis duidelik dat die knapie goed geleer is. Die skoolseuns van die dorp het “meneer” soos ’n nagedagte by hulle antwoorde aangelas en gewoonlik is dit heeltemal weggelaat. Die kêreltjie het ’n amper vreemde innemendheid besit, iets wat hom herinner het aan jong seuntjies in ’n Engelse laerskool, iets heeltemal anders as die bruingebrande, bonkige seuns in hierdie halftropiese deel van die wêreld, waar die samesyn van twee tale gelei het tot verwronge uitsprake en aksente. Ou Andrew het wegbeweeg na waar sy aandag afgetrek was deur iets wat in die tuin gegroei het, maar, hoewel die seun se oë sy oupa gevolg het, het hy geen poging aangewend om hom te volg nie, en het hy eerbiedig op aandag bly staan.
“Laat ons kyk wat ons kan doen, Crest,” het die rektor gesê. “Ek dink jy moet vanmiddag na my toe kom, en bring jou boeke saam met jou. Het jy al begin met Latyn?”
“Nee, Meneer.”
“Hmm, jy sal een of ander tyd daarmee moet begin, en so gou as moontlik sal seker ’n goeie tyd wees. Jy moes eintlik lankal terug daarmee begin het. Ek neem aan meneer Quakerley sal wil hê dat jy moet matrikuleer. Ons sal ’n bietjie daaraan moet dink. Miskien is jy gereed vir standerd vyf, of ten minste vier.” Hy het na die ou man toe omgedraai waar hy daar naby hom besig was om ’n klomp geel blomme, wat op ’n sanderige kol gegroei het, met groot belangstelling te bekyk. “Dalk kan jy hom toelaat om my vanmiddag te kom sien, meneer Quakerley.”
~
Charlie, aan wie gesê is om te gaan loop en speel, het na sy oupa geluister en weggedwaal in die rigting van die watervoor en die badhuisie wat in die skadu van lowerryke akkerbome was. Daar, teen die deur van die badhuisie, het hy ’n krieketkolf gesien waarmee hy toe besig was om denkbeeldige balle, wat verby die trappe van die badhuisie gezoem het, te blokkeer. Meneer Mance-Bisley het bewus geword van ’n emosie wat soos ’n golf in hom opgewel het. Daar was grasie, aksie en ’n aanduiding van daardie instinkmatige voorliefde in dit wat hy gedoen het, wat afwesig was by sy seuns – iets wat hy meermale al betreur het. Hy het die ou man verras deur vorentoe te spring en so hard as wat hy kon uit te roep – want meneer Mance-Bisley was spontaan en het gou opgewerk geraak – “Wag, wag ’n bietjie. Ek gaan ’n bal kry om na jou toe te boul.”
Hy het sy baadjie uitgetrek en sy hempsmoue opgerol, sy kruisbande met twee knoopsgate verkort, en gehuppeldraf – met ’n ratsheid wat mens skaars sou verwag het van ’n persoon so rond en plomp – op met die tuinpaadjie terwyl hy geboul het. Hoe sy bril op sy neus gebly het met sulke energieke bewegings van arms en bene, was ’n wonderwerk. En klaarblyklik het sy ledemate hulle goed van hul taak gekwyt, want hy het met vernuf geboul, ’n goeie lengte gehandhaaf en sy vaart afgewissel. Aan die begin was die kolwertjie ietwat angstig, maar later het sy groeiende selfvertroue en bestendigheid die volwassenes beïndruk. Sy tikhoue en blokwerk is met lofwaardige oordeel uitgevoer. Ou Andrew het die gemaklike grasie van die seun bewonder. Charlie se gesig was ’n blos van opwinding en geesdrif. Hy het die kolf, wat duidelik te groot vir hom was, met behendigheid hanteer, en dit het gewys dat hy al so bietjie touwys gemaak is. Die rektor het foute raakgesien, die gevolg van gebrekkige afrigting, soos ’n paar swak houe wat hy anders kon gespeel het. Maar die speler was op en wakker – sy flinkheid van hand en oog en die durf waarmee hy die boulaanval gekonfronteer het, was opvallend. Die jongeling was onafgerond, maar hy het styl gehad, en daar was kenmerke van ’n eersterangse krieketspeler, of ten minste ’n voortreflike kolwer.
Die rektor, vuurwarm na sy inspanning, het die bal aan Charlie oorhandig. “Kom ons kyk wat jy met die bal kan doen,” het hy aan die seun gesê. “Nog net so ’n klein rukkie, meneer Quakerley, ek wil regtig graag sien hoe hy met die bal vaar.”
“So, ja,” het hy gesê nadat hy hom klaar laat boul het en opgemerk het dat daar in die boulaksie ook heelwat foute was wat uitgeskakel moes word, maar daar was ook voortreflikhede wat enige krieketafrigter sou waardeer. Vir meneer Mance-Bisley was krieket ’n passie en hy het min ander alledaagse dinge só verheerlik, behalwe sy vrou. Jare lank reeds was hy op die uitkyk vir ’n belowende jong knaap wat hy kon besiel met ’n geesdrif amper soos syne, en nou het hy gevoel dat hy uiteindelik gevind het na wie hy gesoek het.
Friendship
From The Valley
by C Louis Leipoldt
Between two such men as Pastor Uhlmann and Andrew Quakerley there was bound to be a temperamental affinity that both realised as soon as they found opportunity for communion of thought. Both were cursed or blessed – the choice of the correct verb may be left to the reader’s conception of real values – with the artistic temperament, though neither would have admitted as much, each accounting himself sternly practical. In Andrew that impulse towards creation, which is the hallmark of the true artist, found expression in such arrangement of beauty as could be achieved by horticulture; in the parson it sought for an outlet in music. Both men felt and respected each other’s bent, though neither knew or recognised that the sympathy which drew them so closely together was based on that mutual love of beauty, that innate appreciation of concord, order and arrangement that each loved and lived for.
Their friendship had not fruited in a day. It had been a slow, careful approach, circumventing the natural shyness both had felt in breaking barriers that barred them from intimacy. As their friendship progressed communion became easier, for they touched and held – without difficulty – matters that interested them both, though in different ways. While Andrew Quakerley lacked the almost erudite scholarship of the parson, who was a trained philologist and an amateur chemist, he possessed the excellent gift of understanding. The parson, again, knew nothing about botany or horticultural science, but he too had sufficient sympathy and knowledge to follow his friend’s trend of thought when the conversation veered to these subjects. The difference in their ages was discounted by the large experience on the part of Uhlmann – neither was conscious of it, though the pastor instinctively deferred to his friend as the senior, for he had been educated in the old school that gave to age, whether it was worthy or not, its due honour.
~
‘I shan’t try to condole with you, old friend,’ Andrew said, noting how the pastor knit and unknit his fingers. ‘The time for that has not yet come. I won’t believe that anything serious has happened to Johnny. He’s always struck me as a lad who can look after himself; and to be wounded, even in several places, is not such a serious thing after all.’
‘You would try to console me,’ retorted the pastor, a wan smile lighting up his crinkled features. ‘I’ve said that to myself over and over again. It’s not that – I mean, I don’t so much mind that he’s wounded. It’s the thought that someone of his own kin may have shot him. For this is civil war, Mr Quakerley, civil war.’
‘I agree with you. But it’s rather far-fetched, all the same. I don’t think there were any colonial troops at Colenso – certainly none from our part of the Colony. They’re with the middle division, you know. Storam had a letter from Martin. He’s with Gatacre’s force.’
‘It’s not Johnny alone. There are others, Mr Quakerley. At Magersfontein young Van Aard was killed – he’s Erasmus van Aard’s nephew, as you will perhaps know. Erasmus’s brother’s son, who settled in the Transvaal in the Ermelo district. At Labuschagne’s Nek, Piet van Tonder fell. He’s a grandson of Jan van Tonder of Suurvlei here.’
‘I know. I saw their names, and I saw Oom Jan and condoled with him. It’s awful. But it’s war, Uhlmann. We can’t help it.’
‘No, that’s why it’s so bitter. So hard to bear. Not that I should complain. I’ve only the one on the other side. Others have more than one.’
Andrew glanced at his companion. He had never before seen the pastor so disturbed. ‘If he doesn’t bend, he’ll break,’ Andrew said to himself. ‘I must get him out of this.’
~
‘What shall I play?’ Uhlmann asked, running his fingers soundlessly over the keyboard.
‘Anything you like. I’m no judge of music.’
Although he was no judge, Andrew, when he heard the first bars, felt that he was listening to someone who loved music almost as much as he loved his garden. There was no tune in what the pastor played, but there were rhythm and melody, and grandeur and passion, warmth and colour and consolation in it. To listen to it was like listening to waves dashing on seashore rocks, to rain pattering on the leaves of his big magnolia tree, to bees humming in his cynoglossum patch on a summer’s day. Joan played, and Alice, but not like that. The pastor’s playing was quite different. It reminded him of flowers, of his garden, of the veld in late September when starred with daisies and iridescent with the sheen of velvety geissorhizas, of the mountains aglow with the reflected light of the sun’s setting, of the big poplar bush at Quakerskloof with the leaves turning silver as the breeze swept over them, of pontac vineyards turning a rich crimson in the autumn. It stirred him, and at the same time it soothed him, a paradoxical feeling that he could not – and did not – attempt to explain. He leant back and enjoyed it.
The pastor played on. Uhlmann seemed oblivious to his listener, entirely absorbed in his music. He improvised; he passed from Beethoven to Mozart, and from Mozart to Scarlatti, pausing between the various themes, and sometimes resting his head on his hands, almost touching the keyboard. Andrew could see that he was profoundly moved as he played, and that the playing soothed him too. At last Uhlmann withdrew his hands from the keys and let them fall limply by his side.
Vriendskap
Uit The Valley
deur C. Louis Leipoldt
Dit was bestem dat daar tussen twee mense soos dominee Uhlmann en Andrew Quakerley ’n natuurlike affiniteit sou wees. Hulle altwee het dit besef toe die geleentheid hom voorgedoen het om gedagtes te wissel. Hulle was beide vervloek of geseën – die keuse van die regte werkwoord mag aan die leser se opvatting van eerlike waardes oorgelaat word – met ’n kunssinnige natuur, hoewel nie een van die twee sou toegee dat dit die geval was nie, want hulle het hulself as besonder prakties beskou. In Andrew het daardie impulsiewe skeppingsvermoë, wat die kenmerk van ’n ware kunstenaar is, sy uiting gevind in ’n ordening van skoonheid soos wat daar in tuinbou gevind kon word. By die predikant weer het sy vermoë tot kuns uiting gesoek in musiek. Hulle het altwee mekaar se aanleg aangevoel en dit gerespekteer, hoewel nie een van die twee geweet en herken het nie dat die meelewendheid wat so ’n wedersydse aantrekkingskrag was, gebaseer was op daardie gemeenskaplike liefde vir skoonheid, daardie inherente waardering vir harmonie, orde en ordening wat altwee voor lief was en voor gelewe het.
Hulle vriendskap het nie sommer oornag rypheid bereik nie. Dit was ’n gestadige, versigtige toenadering wat hulle natuurlike beskroomdheid omseil het en die skeidsmure, wat beide van bewus was wat hulle weerhou het van gemeensaamheid, afgebreek het. Soos hulle vriendskap ontwikkel het, het die omgang met mekaar, vergemaklik, want hulle het aangeleenthede waarin hulle altwee belanggestel het, aangeraak en sonder probleme bespreek, maar nogtans elkeen op sy eie manier. Hoewel Andrew te kortgeskiet het aan die belese vakgeleerdheid van die geestelike, wat ’n opgeleide taalkundige en ’n amateur chemikus was, het hy tog oor die uitmuntende gawe van begrip en insig beskik. Die dominee, op sy beurt, het geen kennis gedra van plant- en tuinboukunde nie, maar ook hy het voldoende empatie en kennis gehad om sy vriend se gedagtegang te volg wanneer die geselskap ’n wending na sulke onderwerpe geneem het. As gevolg van Uhlmann se breë ervaring, het die verskil in hulle ouderdomme geen rol gespeel nie. Nie een van die twee was daarvan bewus nie, hoewel die predikant instinktief sy vriend as senior eerbiedig het, want hy was nog ’n produk van die ou skool wat ouderdom eerbiedig het, of dit verdienstelik was of nie.
~
“Ek gaan nie probeer om met jou meegevoel te betuig nie, my ou vriend,” het Andrew gesê toe hy opgemerk het hoe die dominee aanhoudend sy hande vou en dan sy vingers weer ontvou en strek. “Die tyd vir so iets het nog nie aangebreek nie. Ek glo nie enigiets ernstigs het met Johnny gebeur nie. Hy het vir my altyd gelyk soos ’n kêrel wat na homself kan omsien, en om gewond te wees, selfs op verskeie plekke, is tog eintlik nie so ’n ernstige ding nie.”
Met ’n soort van morbiede glimlag wat sy verrimpelde gelaatstrekke ietwat opgehelder het, het die predikant teruggeantwoord: “Ja, jy sal probeer om my beter te laat voel. Ek het dit al oor en oor vir myself gesê. Dis nie dit nie – ek bedoel, ek gee nie soveel om as hy gewond is nie. Dis die gedagte dat ’n bloedverwant hom kon geskiet het. Dis ’n burgeroorlog hierdie mnr. Quakerley, ’n burgeroorlog.”
“Ek stem saam met jou. Maar dis ’n bietjie vêrgesog. Ek dink nie daar was enige koloniale troepe by Colenso nie – verseker nie uit ons geweste hier in die Kolonie nie. Hulle is saam met die middelste divisie, jy weet. Storam het ’n brief van Martin ontvang. Hy is by Gatacre se magte.”
“Dis nie net Johnny nie. Daar is ook ander mnr. Quakerley. Die jong Van Aard het by Magersfontein omgekom – hy’s Erasmus van Aard se neef, soos jy miskien sal weet. Erasmus se broerskind wat hom in Transvaal in die Ermelo-distrik gevestig het. Piet van Tonder het by Labuschagne se Nek gesneuwel. Hy was Jan van Tonder van Suurvlei hier anderkant, se kleinseun.”
“Ek weet. Ek het hulle name gesien, en ek het ook oom Jan gesien en met hom gesimpatiseer. Dis verskriklik. Maar dis oorlog, Uhlmann. Ons kan dit nie verhelp nie.”
“Nee, dis waarom dit so bitter is. So moeilik om te verduur. Maar ek behoort nie te kla nie. Ek het slegs een aan die anderkant. Daar is ander met meer as een.”
Andrew het sy metgesel vlugtig aangekyk. Nog nooit voorheen het hy die dominee só ontsteld gesien nie. “As hy nie hier buig nie, gaan hy breek,” het Andrew vir homself gesê. “Ek moet hom uit hierdie wanhoopsgat kry.”
~
“Wat sal ek speel?” het Uhlmann gevra terwyl hy sy vingers geluidloos oor die klawers gestreel het.
“Enigiets waarvan jy hou. Ek is nie ’n beoordelaar van musiek nie.”
Hoewel hy nie ’n musiekkenner was nie, het Andrew, toe hy die eerste note gehoor het, gevoel dat hy geluister het na iemand wat musiek amper net so liefgehad het as hy sy tuin. Dit wat die dominee gespeel het, was toonloos, maar daar was ritme en melodie – dit was iets groots met passie, warmte, kleur en vertroosting. Om daarna te luister, was soos om te luister na golwe wat teen rotse op die strand breek, na reën wat kletterval op die blare van sy groot magnoliaboom, na bye wat in sy lappie vergeet-my-nietjies op ’n somersdag zoem. Joan het gespeel en Alice ook, maar nie só nie. Die dominee se klavierspel was heel anders. Dit het hom aan blomme herinner, aan sy tuin, aan die veld teen laat September – opgehemel deur madeliefies, en perlemoenkleurig met die glans van fluweelagtige kelkiewynblommetjies, aan die berg gloeiend in die weerkaatste lig van die ondergaande son, aan die groot populierbos by Quakerskloof met die blare wat silwer van kleur verander wanneer die bries deur hulle heen waai, aan pontakwingerde wat in die herfs ryk karmosynrooi verkleur. Dit het hom ontroer, en terselfdertyd ook kalmerend gestreel – ’n skynbaar teenstrydige gevoel wat hy nie kon, en nie probeer verduidelik het nie. Hy het teruggeleun en die musiek geniet.
Die dominee het aangehou met speel. Dit het gelyk of Uhlmann totaal onbewus was van sy toehoorder, geheel en al versonke in sy musiek. Hy het geïmproviseer; van Beethoven het hy na Mozart aanbeweeg, en van Mozart na Scarlatti, met ’n verposing tussen die onderskeie temas, en soms het hy met sy kop op sy hande gerus – wat amper teen die klawers was. Andrew kon sien dat hy onpeilbaar diep aangedaan was terwyl hy gespeel het, en dat die musiek hom ook gekalmeer het. Uiteindelik het hy sy hande van die klavier af teruggetrek en slap langs sy sye laat hang.
Mielies
Uit Polfynties vir die proe
deur C. Louis Leipoldt
Wat is daar heerliker, sagter en meer aptyt-lokkend as ’n jong groenmielie, behoorlik gaar, roomwit of goudgeel, met elke korrel so rond en vet asof hy op die stronk uitgebeitel is? Watter eg Afrikaanse skottel het ons wat op tafel kan wedywer met ’n Transvaalse tannie se mieliebrood? Iemand wat een van die twee, or albei, geëet het, sal die herinnering daaraan lank is sy geheue bewaar.
Moet jy jou mielie met of sonder die binneblare kook? Die Amerikaners kook dit altyd met die binneblare, wat saam met die baard verwyder word nadat die mielie gaar is. Ons manier, waaraan ek ook voorkeur gee, is om die blare af te trek, die mielie mooi van elke stukkie baard te suiwer, dit dan vir ’n paar minute in kokende water te dompel en daarna stadig te kook met ’n bietjie sout in die water.
Maria sorg dat dit nie te lank kook nie. Dit is moeilik om presies te weet waar die kook moet ophou. Te lank kook verwyder die sappigheid uit die pitte; hulle lyk dan nie meer mooi rond nie, maar amper kantig, en die een staan nie meer, soos hy behoort te doen, skouer aan skouer met sy maat nie, maar leun ’n bietjie oor, asof hy skaam is om sy plek in die ry te behou. Ek erken volmondig dat ek nog nie die kuns geleer het – wat elke ou aia skyn te besit – om mielies perfek te kook nie. Dus waardeer ek dit des te meer as ek dit op die plaas in die mielietyd teëkom, veral as dit nog van die ouderwetse “broodmielies” is.
Laat hulle in ’n vergiettes afdroog sodra hulle gaar is, sonder egter hul warmte te verloor, en bedien hulle met – nou natuurlik met niks nie. ’n Goeie groenmielie kan op sy eie pote, of pitte, staan. As daar botter op die tafel is, kan diegene wat dit op sy mielie wil smeer, daarvan gebruik maak. Maar bedien tog nie gesmelte botter in die souspotjie met jou mielies nie! Ook nie ’n gekunstelde “mieliesous” (soos ek al hier en daar teëgekom het) van botter, neutmuskaat en eierdooier nie. Die sou ’n aanstoot en ’n affrontering wees. Die smaak van ’n goed gekookte groenmielie is te delikaat en te fyn om gesny te word met enige ander smaak of geur.
En juis daarom kan jy ook geen wyn met jou mielie neem nie. Wag totdat jy behoorlik met hom afgereken het voordat jy na jou kelkie gryp.
Jy moet hom natuurlik “van die stronk af” eet. Om die pitte af te sny en met lepel of vurk te verslind – nou ja, dit is amper net so gruwelik as om hom met neutmuskaat en ’n suursous te bedien.
17 Maart 1944
Mielies
From Leipoldt's Food & Wine
by C Louis Leipoldt
What can be more delicious, soft and appetising than young corn on the cob, properly done, creamy-white or golden-yellow, each pip as round and fat as if it were chiselled on the cob? And what genuinely Afrikaans dish can compete with a Transvaal tannie’s mielie bread? Anyone who has eaten either, or both, will savour the experience.
Should one cook mielies with or without the inside leaves? The Americans always cook them with the inside leaves, which are removed along with the beard once the mielies are done. Our way, which I happen to prefer, is to peel off the leaves, rid the mielies of every strand of beard, immerse them in boiling water for a few minutes, then cook them slowly with some salt in the water.
Maria sees to it that they do not cook for too long. It is difficult to know exactly when to stop. Cooking them for too long removes the juiciness from the pips – they are then no longer nice and round, but develop sides, and the one no longer huddles shoulder to shoulder with the other as it should, but ‘leans’ somewhat, as if shy to maintain its place in the row. I freely admit that I have not yet mastered the art of cooking mielies perfectly, as every Ayah appears to have done, which is why I appreciate them all the more when I come across them on the farm in the mielie season, especially when they are nice, old-fashioned ‘bread mielies’.
Leave them to dry in a colander as soon as they are done, without letting them cool off, and serve them with – well, with nothing at all. A good green mielie can stand on its own legs, or – one might say – pips. If there’s butter on the table, those who wish to spread it on their mielies may do so. But please do not serve your mielies with molten butter in a little side-dish. And in heaven’s name, no affected ‘mielie sauce’ (as I have encountered here and there) of butter, nutmeg and egg yolk. That would be an insult and an affront. The taste of a well-cooked green mielie is far too delicate and fine to be blended with any other flavour or taste.
Take no wine with your mielie, for precisely the same reason. Reach for your glass only after you’ve properly despatched your mielie.
And, of course, a mielie must be eaten on the cob. To remove the pips and polish them off with a spoon or a fork – well, that’s about as abominable as serving a mielie with nutmeg and a sour sauce.
17 March 1944
The Olifants River Valley & the Village of Clanwilliam
From The Valley
by C Louis Leipoldt
The Valley
Most of those who live in the valley learn to love it. It grips the imagination; it conjures with its beauty, with the subtle impression it makes on that aesthetic sense that lies dormant in each of us. No one can explain that influence of concentrated natural beauty on those who are daily exposed to it, but it is chastening while it is uplifting, strengthening the soul as well as the mind, a very potent factor in the life of those who feel that mountain and river, with their age-old serenity, bear the impress of forces that have moulded man’s destiny in the past and will mould it in the future.
So the valley had left its imprint on its inhabitants for generations. It had influenced them unconsciously. They could not, had they been asked to do so, express in words in just what manner it had shaped their lives. Most of them indeed would have been surprised if anybody hinted that these rugged ranges and that slow-moving river – that in winter overflowed its shallow bed and in summer dwindled down to mild trickles divided by lines of drift sand – had had anything to do with their lives. None the less the valley had stamped them, indefinably indenting on them something of its own character, inevitably teaching them to look with liking on its contours and ultimately to love every coign of it, every buttress that caught the wind in its seaward or inland sweep, every hill slope that lay brown under a blistering sun in late summer or blazed in purple and crimson and gold when the spring gave it a harvest of sorrel and saffron irises.
The Village
In its eighty years of existence the village had developed characteristics which, cumulatively, expressed its soul. It was somnolent, not with the sleepiness of repletion, but with the sense of complacency that is the result of victoriously overcoming small difficulties. The village had matured like a fine Burgundy wine in which time, climate and repose mellow the acids into esters and the alcohols into aldehydes. Nothing revolutionary had ever happened in it. Tranquil through the years, it had devoted its energies to the tame villatic interests which had absorbed all its attention. It had concentrated upon them an enthusiasm and a forceful energy that elsewhere, directed into other channels, might have achieved great things.
All things that mature slowly carry in themselves a capacity for permanency. The village was no exception to this rule, though few of its inhabitants would have been able to define just which of its prevailing characteristics were the more likely to endure. The old-fashioned air that nestled about it – the rococo gables of the brown-thatched houses, the trellised vines that made arbours in the gardens in summertime, the quaint dignity of wooden gates and stoep seats plaited with leathern strips – all these would vanish before the onrushing tide of novelty which year by year broke down the old barriers and transformed the nooks and corners into open spaces, more sanitary perhaps, but far less picturesque than they had been before. Few of the village inhabitants minded these inevitable changes, which came so slowly that their effects were hardly recognised before they had achieved such permanency that they could be reckoned as part and parcel of the environment.
Perhaps that was the tragedy of the village – that it acquiesced in changes which it could not forbid, and while acquiescing, was incapable of realising what it lost.
